As he awoke the next morning, John was dimly aware of a man standing over him. He tried to stir but he felt as if his head was in a vise and his limbs were made of lead. His mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on old socks all night.
"Interesting choice of blanket," a posh voice sniffed.
Bloody hell. John wondered how Mycroft got in, but then he remembered he was dealing with Mycroft Holmes and stopped wondering. With a Herculean effort, John dragged himself into a sitting position, blinking against the bright sun shining through the windows. "Good morning to you too," he grumbled.
"Anthea told me of the state you were in yesterday afternoon. I thought I should come and see for myself." Mycroft pursed his lips. "Drunkenness does not become you, Doctor Watson."
"That isn't really the point," he mumbled. He'd had a lot of hangovers in the last few days – weeks? – but this was the Queen Mother of them all. He'd give anything for a cup of tea and 400 mg of ibuprofen right now.
As if reading his mind, Mycroft brought a cup of tea from the kitchen and laid two ibuprofen tablets next to it on the coffee table. Still towering over John, he said, "Whatever the purpose of your nightly… activities, I suggest you cease and desist immediately. It will undoubtedly affect your job performance."
John swallowed the pills and then rubbed his throbbing temples. "Mycroft, what are you talking about? You bloody well know I've been sacked!" With all his surveillance, Mycroft had probably known that there was a plan to sack John before John did.
"I'm afraid you were let go due to your association with my brother. The people responsible for sacking you wish it to be known that they have just been sacked. Of course, I doubt you'd want to go back to the surgery after all this, but I've heard of another job that might interest you," Mycroft said evenly.
John sighed. Mycroft was taking pity on him and he wouldn't leave until John agreed to allow him to pull some strings and get him this job, whatever it was. Few people on Earth were more stubborn than the Holmeses when they had a mission to carry out. "All right, Mycroft, what's the job?"
"It's in the Emergency & Trauma Centre at Royal London Hospital. Accidents, stabbings, shootings … it would be perfect for a man who misses the war."
John rolled his eyes. "And I suppose you'll pull some strings and get me pity-hired right away."
"No."
"No?"
Mycroft frowned and replied icily, "I have a reputation to maintain, Doctor Watson. I cannot recommend an MD who clearly is more interested in drinking himself into his grave than keeping his patients out of theirs. However, if you can force yourself to stop all this," he nodded in the direction of John's numerous liquor bottles, "I can perhaps see to it that position stays open long enough for you to apply."
John spat, "Since when do you care about me? You just need to run someone's life, and since Sherlock's finally escaped your grasp, the lucky bastard, you've settled for me. Sod that! I was his experiment, but I won't be yours!"
Mycroft lifted John up by his collar, dangled the shorter man in the air and then gave him a brief but forceful shake. "Never speak of my baby brother that way again," Mycroft said in a deadly tone that John didn't even know he was capable of using. John gave him a terrified nod.
Unceremoniously, Mycroft released John and dropped him back on the couch. John looked at the floor, chastened. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
Mycroft cleared his throat and said softly, "In his will, my brother instructed me to continue paying his share of the rent so that you could remain at 221B. He would be disappointed in me if I turned a blind eye while his best friend destroyed himself." The flicker of vulnerability passed and Mycroft's face took on a disapproving glare. "He would also be disappointed in you."
John flushed. How did Mycroft bloody Holmes wind up on the moral high ground? Sherlock would be disappointed, and John couldn't bear to let his best friend down, even if he was dead.
Still glaring at John, Mycroft said, "I shall return tomorrow, Doctor Watson. We have much more to discuss. In the meantime, pull yourself together and start acting in a manner befitting a soldier!"
As Mycroft turned to leave, something pricked the back of John's mind. "Mycroft… did you actually quote Monty Python earlier?"
Mycroft sniffed, "A diplomat needs to establish a rapport with foreigners, and it appears that those ridiculous men are Britain's most popular export." With that, Mycroft sauntered out, twirling his umbrella.
A/N: I doubt Mycroft actually enjoys Monty Python (or anything else, save perhaps his umbrella) but he's probably seen the movies once so that he can understand what all his diplomatic colleagues are talking about.